Notes
by Film and Junk
Summary: Roger's ready to quit. After all, he's not an addict, so this won't be too difficult. Right? MarkRoger
1. It's Liberation

Authors' Note: Whether or how far this fic will stray from canon, we don't yet know. One thing we do know is that it is going to be MarkRoger. If you don't like that, don't read. We really don't appreciate reviews telling us that you don't approve of that pairing. (Though we love reviews!)

Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson (wearenotworthywearenotworthy)

_I don't know what makes me do it. I'm high. I'm high as a kite, higher than the air I'm high high high but being high isn't what people think. I mean, it's... shit, it's just liberation. It's just that I can do whatever I want because I can see and what I want, what I do, is this, is walk into the next room where Mark and Collins are watching some crappy old movie on TV and eating popcorn absently and talking softly and I go up to Mark. I don't say a word. I grab his shirt and pull him up to me and I kiss him, hard, stick my tongue in his mouth and when I open my eyes after I see his eyes, blue and much much wider than usual._

"Roger? What are you doing?" Mark raises an eyebrow at the sleeping boy, me, lying next to him on the couch, my inarticulate muttering progressively becoming louder until I practically moan. We are the only people here, in the loft. Collins is staying with us for the next month or so, but he went out a couple of hours ago. Mark is settled in front of the television. After a while, I joined him, but the show didn't interest me. My eyes were beginning to itch, so I closed them and started a nap.

I awoke when Mark asked me that question, but I kept my eyes closed. I was having such a lovely dream, and prefer now not to leave it. If I awake, I face the cold in the loft. I face the dreary rain that seems to have carried on for years. I face the fact that in a few days I'll have nothing to face but the dreary rain, because in a few days my stash will probably run dry.

"What the hell are you dreaming about?" He pokes my side and laughs when I twitch. What a strange boy. He reaches over and grabs the remote control, flipping through a few channels before turning the television off. I hear the remote clatter as he sets it down.

I liked that dream. Mark tasted good. I moan and writhe, shifting my head into his lap, my nose pressed against his belly. Mmm. I could live here forever...

Mark once told me that his family spoke to him while he slept. They would hold entire conversations, according to their stories, which Mark would later have no memory of. He leans down just a bit, bringing his lips nearer my ear, and asks, "What were you dreaming about, Roger?"

I mumble something unintelligible and squirm a little. Oh, Jesus. He moves. I swear I feel... "Mmmmark..." I whimper. "Mark." And I am thinking of him, wondering how much he'll allow as my fingers slip under the elastic waistband of my boxers.

His eyes widen as he realizes that I am dreaming about him. He watches my fingers slip into my boxers. He gulps, loudly. "R-Roger?"

He places a hand on my wrist, probably meaning well, as Mark often does, but as soon as my skin makes contact with his, his fingers slide along mine. I like that, the warmth of his hand on mine. Just the contact tautens the muscles in my belly. I'm just beginning to really enjoy this when he yanks his hand away.

Ooh, and G-d how badly I wanted him! But I know something now: I know that Mark wants me just like I want him. He wants me to want him. I smile as my hand curls warmly in my pants. This is going to be good. My other arm I wrap around Mark and mumble something involving the word 'teddy'.

Mark twitches, and I know he's watching my movements as I start to pump. He lets out a pathetic sounding whine, like a puppy denied his Milk Bone. I suppose I'm cruel to deprive Mark of the ability to touch himself, but given the location of my head, he can't. He's plenty hard, though.

Mm.. Ooh. Oh. My stomach quivers. "Mark." It's easy to say the name when he's giving me earsex. "Mark..." And I'm getting haaaard and liking this, liking it a lot. I want to wake up and bring his hand down. I want to wake up with a magical slowness that lets him know, honey, I'm here and this moment doesn't need to change. And I'd bring his hand down to touch me and unzip his pants and put him in my mouth and I'd--

"Holy... shit, guys!" My eyes flash open. Collins has arrived.

Mark jumps off the couch, not even turning to look as I am spilled to the floor, and stammers, "I-It's not what you think! I was…" The color rises to his face. "I n-need... Bathroom. Five minutes." With that, he turns and hightails it out of the room, locking himself in the bathroom.

My back stings from the sudden contact with the ground. Nothing to kill a buzz like a short drop and a sudden stop! Collins helps me up, hauling me by the T-shirt. "Sorry," he says. "If I'd known what you two were up to--"

"I'll make you a fucking sign," I mutter. I'm not being fair, and I know that. Collins is a good guy. He's just trying to make light of the situation. But dammit, I want Mark so bad and I almost had him, and he wants me... "Give me a minute." I go into my room and close the door and think of what Mark's doing in the bathroom, and I'm not exactly hard but I stroke myself a little, just to feel better.

I'm not in the mood to get hard, but I also want to keep petting a little, though it's getting boring. I pull my guitar into my lap. The chords resonate, vibrating in my lap. I touch myself with my art.

When Mark finally steps out of the bathroom, Collins looks up from the couch.

"So..." he says, "what were you two doing?" I hear through the walls, the squeaking springs as Mark plops down on the couch.

I can't think of any chords, so I play the first melody I ever picked out, three chords again and again, like for a harp. There's a knock at the door. "What's up?" I call.

Collins opens the door. "Me and Mark are gonna watch some movies. You want to?"

I shake my head. "Thanks the same." I need to be alone for a while.

Mark begins making popcorn. Collins pops in the movie and rewinds the tape. "They're supposed to rewind the tapes so that you don't have to…"

"You have popcorn?" There is a note of skepticism to Collins' tone.

"No," Mark replies sarcastically. I only hear so much because I'm listening for it, trying to pretend this ache of fear in my gut doesn't keep me alone. "I'm making fried ants. The theatre specialty in India," Mark quips. Collins laughs.

"No, I meant, you two are always starving, yet you have popcorn." Collins makes himself comfortable on the couch, placing his feet on the table in front of him. He doesn't officially live here, but he behaves as though he does, a trait I love and envy. I always feel out of place. Collins is constantly at ease.

"You gotta have your staple foods."

I can hear the movie running. It's a good one, too. Collins knows I'm a sap for it, knows I can't hear the name Edmond Dantes mentioned without getting a little thrill. And it's exactly my dream. Suddenly I wish I hadn't woken up. I wish I had gotten to know what Mark would do, because I have a strong urge to run into the next room and kiss him, and I would do it if I just knew how he would react. I would do it in a second.

I need to know. I do. I need Mark and at least if I can't have him I need to know and not be bobbing like a fucking kelp raft, useless and powerless and I'm too chicken to go out and ask him, because though I wish to know, I am afraid to learn. But I know what would make me brave.

I take a quick chase, then I feel _gooood._ I mean, you don't know good feelings until you've done it. You think you've been happy? You're only level and don't know but this, this is good and free, and who gives a damn, yeah I want Mark but the world won't end if I can't have him. And I fling open the door and walk into the next room.

Mark and Collins look up. I grab Mark by the shirt just like in my dream. He momentarily wears an expression of panic, then I pull myself onto him and kiss him with my tongue."

A moan escapes his throat. And he's kissing back. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer, wanting to feel more of this, until suddenly, rationality hits hard back home. He pushes me off him. He sees my face, my eyes. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I laugh. "It's not obvious?" I ask, casting a meaningful glance at the bulge in his pants.

"Roger, you're high," he explains. "This isn't right." He throws a look at Collins, who's watching this and making sure it doesn't get out of hand.

"It's okay," I say. Mark never understands... The drugs aren't bad, they aren't. Junkies are bad. Addicts are bad. Drug abuse, bad, anything abuse is bad, but the drugs themselves, they don't change us. They just make us more ourselves. I've tried telling Mark this but he never listens. "You wanted me earlier..."

"Roger...this isn't going to work. Not like this. Not with you acting upon impulses released by… that."

"Hey man, how about you just watch the movie with us?" Collins asks.

I want to. In a way, I really want to sit down with my friends and watch the movie, and I mean, I shouldn't've sat like that just liking it before coming out here because it must've been a couple minutes, though I swear I just blinked, and I'm coming down now and that's… ugh. I mean, it's bad enough when the good good feeling fades, and I don't need that compounded by just having been rejected by Mark and my eyes are getting a little itchy, anyway, so I say, "Thanks anyway. I think I'll go lie down."

It's easy to do when you're coming off smack and your bones turn to lead.

Mark collapses back onto the couch. "What _was_ that?"

Collins places an arm around his shoulders and gives him a tight hug. "Hey," he says. "You made the right choice, okay? Don't think about it too much. Let's finish the movie."

I dream.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	2. Not An Addict

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson (we're not worthy!)

_I'm sweating and coldcoldcoldHOTBOILINGHOT, oh g-d Mark just one, please, just a little dab to make this easier. Oooh, but I promised him, I promised no more. No more. _I want to be with you, but not the you you become when you take this._ I promised. I'll stop. Be my drug, Mark. You be my drug. I didn't say it aloud since I was promising no more drugs and now it hurts and I don't want to cry because he won't like me if I'm a baby but I can't stop it hurts Mark I can't I can't I can't I--_

I wake up, doused in sweat, panting. I touch my face; tears. For a moment I sit in bed and try desperately to catch my breath, terrified by the pain created by my mind. But that dream was stupid. It was hypothetical. It was my mind caving to Mark's, because I am not an addict. I think briefly of taking a dab to calm myself, but that's addict behavior, so I pull on my sweats and wander out into the main room.

Mark's making himself tea when I wander out of my room. "Morning. Want some tea?" Mark pretends nothing happened yesterday--either he pretends it or he ignores what happened. It's difficult to say yet. The difference is: if he's ignoring it, he will behave normally. If he's pretending it never happened, he will be awkward. He picks up an empty mug and shakes it for emphasis.

I take the tea. "Thanks," I mumble, slurping it down. I don't like tea particularly, but anything for the caffeine. There's some Captain Crunch hanging around. I swallow a handful dry and feel the sugar enter my bloodstream, coursing through with energy. Mmm. "Morning," I belatedly tell Mark. I feel my sweats slid down half a centimeter and mentally slap myself for tying them too loosely.

They must be too big, because it seems they are constantly falling off, but I love these sweats. It's the strangest thing: my mother sent them in a box intended for my sister. So my sister got the soap and aftershave I left at home along with my clothes, while I got her dildo and clothes. The dildo and most of the clothes I sent to her, but the sweats slipped under the bed. They fit like a dream.

Mark's eyes take in every inch, or centimeter I suppose, of exposed skin when my(/my sister's) sweats slide down. He looks as though he's wishing they'd slid down more. His grip on his mug tightens. "So, any plans for today?" The conversation is so rote and casual it cannot help but sound forced. Mark is pretending yesterday never happened.

I shake my head. "Nothing. You?" It sounds like an invitation, which it wasn't. I mean, it was, but... it would've been. If he hadn't done that to me last night. I wish he could just ask. If he said, Roger, quit for me. Hell, I'd do it in half a second. And I can quit. It'd be real easy, just stop doing smack and start, like, drinking more tea. It's not an addiction, it's a habit.

Mark also shakes his head. "No. No plans." His eyes are glued to my sweatpants. They're sliding oh ever so slowly, making me a flirt against my will.

These damn pants keep slipping lower and lower over my ass. "Sorry," I mutter. "I'm just gonna go fix these." I go back in my room. The knot has been in the strings so long I can't undo it, I just tie another knot higher up, and this one keeps the pants up. The fabric's a little bunchy. I hate it when this happens.

Mark retreats back into his room. He always manages to have a good stack of reels to go through.

Mark's door is open. I'm not needy, I don't need him, I don't go into his room or anything until I have a reason. My pen dies. I shake it a good couple of times, but that's it, no more pen, so I get up and knock on Mark's door. "Mark? Could I borrow a pen?"

Mark looks up from his projector and over to the doorway. His eyes linger on me for just a moment, long enough to confirm that there is some warmth between us but not long enough, not nearly long enough. I love eyes. I love their complexity. No two pairs are ever exactly alike, changed slightly in color, mixed color, experience.

"Yeah. There's a bunch of 'em in that mug." _What? Oh, yeah, pens. _He motions to the mug with his chin-- his hands are busy-- and sets back to work.

"Thanks." I grab a pen but my finger catches on the mug and knocks it to the ground. I catch it before it can shatter, but the pens roll around like mad. "Sorry!" and I'm on my knees, picking them up. How could I do that? It's so ridiculously clumsy. It's humiliating for a man to whom deft fingers are a necessity.

Mark puts the reel he's holding down and gets on his knees to help. "Hey, don't worry about it. I must have dropped these a million--" our hands brush accidentally, "times." He looks up, catching my eyes on him. I had been watching the broken patterns drawn by the lines of light glinting in his hair, circling around his ear, and he's perfect right there. But his eyes catch mine and this is what I wanted, a close view of his eyes. A firecracker deletes the bottom half of my stomach and sends the top half into my esophagus.

It happens practically how one sees it happen in the movies. It's just a feeling, an internal instinct that tells us what to do. We both lean forward, our lips inches away from each other and all I can think of is the mood. The mood is not perfect. It's natural to just let our lips touch. The circumstances, the lead up, it's all at least falling into place--but not perfect, apparently, because he pulls back and stammers softly, 'R-Roger… about what happened yesterday…"

Oh. So the smack was an excuse. He didn't want me, after all. "It doesn't matter," I mutter, hurriedly returning to the pens. If I pretend, maybe it won't hurt.

Mark grabs my sleeve. "Roger, listen, please." He waits until I look back at him and it's those eyes again, and he bites his lip, wondering how to best articulate his thoughts. He's cute when he does that. "I want you. I want this." With his free hand Mark moves his fingertips rapidly between us, indicating a bond. "But I want the real you. The you you. Not the you on... g-d, Roger. Do you understand?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't understand. I can't read your mind. What do you want?" And the truth is, I want him to say something physical. I want you to get a job, I want you to be considerate and do the dishes more often, I want you not to drink the last of the milk, I want you to give up drugs. Something. Because I don't know which part of me he doesn't like. I think it's the drugs... Mark doesn't understand about drugs, he doesn't. He has never felt his bare feet sink into a cloud. He has never been happier than G-d intended. But if he asked, I'd stop. Then he'd see. He'd see that drugs just make you more you.

"I don't want you on drugs anymore, Roger."

I nod. He did it. He asked, just as I had wanted. I just keep nodding. "So... if I stop chasing the dragon, that's it? We can... try it?"

Mark lets out a relieved sigh. Did he know he was holding his breath? "Yeah. Yeah, we can." He grips my sleeve tighter and asks, almost disbelieving, "So that's it? You'll stop? Just like that?"

I nod again. "Yeah," I say. "I mean, it's not like I'm an addict or anything, I just like it."

Mark swipes the pens scattered between us away and sits closer to me. "This means a lot to me." He places a hand on my cheek, turns my head so that it's angled just right and gives me a chaste kiss. I wonder what Mark would say if I told him it wasn't the damp ripeness of his lips I enjoy most but the feeling of his hand, the warmth and sweat pressing softly into my cheek, the _us_ness of him and me.

When he pulls back, he repeats, "It means a lot. You've no idea. And I'll be here every step of the way."

I lift his hand off my cheek and kiss his knuckles. "I appreciate that," I say. "I'll try not to be irritable. But don't worry, Mark. I'm not an addict. Really." He doesn't believe me, but that's okay. He'll see. And I've got him and he's got me... that's what really matters.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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	3. Here, I'm Here

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's

MARK

January 23, 1988. 8:00pm EST. The rain caught me while filming outside and I ran all the way home. I'm dripping wet, shivering. No one seems to be home, the loft is dark and quiet. I take out my camera from where I had safely nestled it between me and my coat, and set it down. I shrug off my coat and turn to hang it on a hook on the wall. There's a strong yank on my scarf and I turn around, following the length of my scarf to see who's on the other end.

"Roger." It sounds more like an exhalation than a statement and Roger's only response is a cocky, sexy smirk. He pulls on the scarf, bringing me closer and closer until I'm standing right in front of him, still cold, but no longer trembling from it. I'm trembling from building excitement and he knows it. Our lips meet in small kisses and once or twice he tries to slip in a little tongue, but I refuse. There's something… there's something I'm supposed to ask... "What about the drugs?"

"They're right here, baby," he whispers in my ear and I know he's slipping them out of his back pocket as he speaks. "We can do it together…" and I'm nodding. "You'll love it," he assures me and I moan. His voice is driving me mad and I just want to do anything to get him to kiss me, touch me, to fuck me—

It's a muffled, pained moan that wakes me. I'm lying in bed, sweating and tangled in my sheets. There are faint images still floating in my mind, but they're fleeting and in a minute, all I can remember is the goosebumps they gave me. I'm semi-erect and that bothers me. I touch my shoulder where Roger's hand rested not a moment earlier. _No,_ I remind myself. Roger's hand never rested there. It was a dream, only a dream. It was a good dream. It was a very bad dream.

I cannot sort through what I feel. I cannot make it make sense. Taking deep breaths, I try to calm myself, I review the facts. Roger kissed me. It was a nice kiss, one I enjoyed. At the fact I am carried into the memory of his lips, how solid he felt in my arms, the drop in my stomach as I realized that he had to make himself high to kiss me. And it had been a good kiss, but it was not Roger kissing me.

I shook my head. I would never do drugs. I would never do that.

I hear Roger moan again. Roger is no stranger to nightmares and, though he hates to bother anyone with them (or perhaps is simply embarrassed), I dislike leaving him alone. I'm afraid of what it will do to him. So I push myself out of bed and stumble into the cold.

ROGER

There's a point in sex, good sex anyway, just before orgasm when you need it so bad it hurts. You think you'll vomit because your stomach hardens and it feels so good. Without that good feeling, it's withdrawal. Only worse. Running three miles without stretching. Eating rancid meat. Skating in skivvies in midwinter. All at once, and...

"Oh, G-d!" I've tried to do this lying down but, ugh, I sit up, form a little tent with my knees and hug myself, trembling. My stomach is cramping so bad I want to run to the bathroom but I'm scared if I move the muscles will just burst and tear...

"Ooh." Ouch. It's dark. It's... can it really only have been one day? One day since I promised Mark no more, and now he needs his rest so I'm trying not to bother him. I don't want him to look at me right now. I'm disgusting. I'm weak. I'm a mess. I want to be his boyfriend, not his little brother, so I try to keep quiet.

"Roger?"

It's my name in his voice, worried, that makes me whimper.

I know Mark's looking at me, I can hear him saying my name, but I don't look at him because if I can't see him he can't see me and if he can't see me he won't know because if he sees this he'll think, he'll think I was an addict and I am an addict and he'll oh G-d no I'm doing this for him what will I do if he leaves me oh G-d no I've started I've started I can't go through this again and stop looking at me make him stop looking make it stop hurting!

But, G-d, don't leave. Don't leave, Mark, don't leave me, don't you leave me here now like this at all please don't Mark please tell me you're here tell me you'll stay tell me with your voice and your arms please--no! Stop, stop seeing, don't remember me like this…

He pulls me into him and embraces me tightly. He holds me against his chest and rocks me slowly and whispers, "Hey, baby, I'm here for you." _Baby._ It's not an endearment I would accept from most, but from Mark I like it. It's not condescending, it's an offer of protection, a promise, dedication. It's what I need right now. "I'm not going to leave you. You're not going to face this alone. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here…" and it's his warm voice filling my head and… I… smile…

What Mark doesn't know, what I don't know until that moment, is, I have to face this alone. I have, ultimately, to be the one strong enough, the one to say again and again, no. I don't need drugs. I don't need smack. Because if I wanted it, I could get it, Mark couldn't stop me, and I do want it, want it so bad. That's all this is, this pain, this is desire and it's me saying no. Mark can't face that. He can't take it. I'm glad for that, I wouldn't want him like this, don't want him like this.

But I'm not physically alone. In that sense, he's right. He's here. He's holding me. I can feel him, hear his voice and maybe I'm just not as frustrated and lonely anymore but the pain ebbs, a little. "Thank you." There aren't words for what I want to tell Mark, nor, at the moment, are there deeds. It's just he gets it or he doesn't and I hope he does.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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